


Again

by Moru (Lurkylurk)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batman: The Killing Joke, Joker origin(s), M/M, POV Bruce Wayne, Pre-Joker, Red Hood Joker, References to various comics and universes, dreams from the multiverse, hints of batjokes, or maybe someone out there has had enough and is finally interfering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurkylurk/pseuds/Moru
Summary: In his dreams that man keeps falling—and he keeps on failing. It has to be this way.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Again

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Bruce hasn’t been Batman for long and the Joker has not yet entered the stage.
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about TKJ/Jokers fall into the acid and this is basically just me puking some of those feelings onto the page, but I hope it still makes sense enough, ha. It probably helps to be familiar with the Killing Joke. There are quite some references and some borrowed dialogue (especially within the brackets) to other stories, but it’s nothing super obscure—if you’re at a point at which you read batjokes fic chances are very high you’ll know these.

Bruce rarely dreams anymore since he’s began his mission. Sleepless nights and the rigorous training he forces on himself usually leave his body too exhausted to do anything but downright fall into unconsciousness once his head hits the pillows, but lately nightmares have been plaguing him again; or, more precisely, a single reoccurring nightmare, one that always ends the same way no matter what he does.

The first time he dreams of meeting _him_ inside ACE Chemicals, Bruce is young and inexperienced, naive in his pursuit of justice. He doesn’t see the way the Red Hood shakes and stumbles on the catwalk, cannot foresee how the Batman stalking towards him would drive him to the ledge in terror until it’s too late. He pleads and begs and tries to tug the helmet off his head just as his back hits the ramshackle railing. A crack, a shout, a flail, (a jump?)—

Bruce is fast, but not fast enough. Their fingertips barely graze against each other, and it hits him like a match striking, igniting and eager to burn. But it’s not Bruce who falls, screams and burns.

He searches for him long after the screams fall silent and the surface of the chemical waste went still again, finding nothing but guilt that settles heavy on his shoulders and a scattered deck of cards swimming on the green substance. The king of spades sinks down, a joker on acid-eaten cardboard mocks him. There is no way he survived this, is there?

(The clatter of a crowbar and blood, blood, blood and ashes and a shot and a bitter embrace in the rain—)

 _You can’t save everyone,_ they say.

-

Another time they meet inside ACE Chemicals, the Red Hood is not quite as innocent. There is blood on his hands long before they start to dance.

“My little vigilante,” he croons, “it _is_ you under there, isn’t it?” _(Darling.)_ Bruce has been hunting the man for so long he got reckless and it has them both hanging on the torn edges of the walkway now, the chemical stench from the vat below biting in his eyes. 

He yells for him to take his hand, yet all he does is smile, grin, laugh—and let go. He lunges, tries to get a hold of him, but his fingertips barely touch his, and it shocks him with the familiarity of a _déjà vu_.

Despite everything he searches for him long after the choking laughter fell silent, until the police has him disappear back into the shadows. Somehow, he knows he survived and will see him again.

(A card pressed against glass and torn faces in the flames and the world crumbling around them and fishes circling each other in blissful unawareness—)

 _You can’t save him,_ they say.

-

The next time Bruce knows he won’t be fast enough to catch him—so as soon as the man tips over the railing he goes for his claw instead, aims at center mass and fires. It latches onto his chest, surely grabbing flesh along with the clothes and yanking him to a sudden and painful stop midair, but the grip holds. Wide eyes stare up at him, almost reverently.

But still he laughs. It starts low in the back of his throat, a giggle bubbling out of his mouth, then mad barks of laughter like he’s never heard them before (hears too often). He laughs even harder as Bruce pulls him up, and his heart falls.

_(Of course. Of course you were my friend.)_

_I can’t save him._

-

The last time Bruce thinks he turned full circle. Everything seems to happen the same way: the Red Hood falls and, once again, he is too slow to reach him.

But no—this time something is different. This time he knows how this will end, unless—

Unless he can consciously break out of this pattern.

Instead of wasting precious time trying to fish the man out of the waste he dives straight below the vats and pipes, cape slowing his fall. There is only one way his body could be dragged to. He follows the drainage, the sound of his boots on the metal floor echoing loudly in his ears. As soon as he spots the pipe's endpoint he makes his way outside, past officers shouting for him to stop, hoping against all hope to get there in time.

There—a trembling shadow crawling out of the waste catches his eyes before it collapses into a still heap onto the muddy ground. Bruce glides down without a sound and approaches him. The humid air is heavy in his lungs. Dread gnaws at his bones.

 _Please_. He lowers himself onto his haunches, cautiously reaching for his dripping wet shoulder. _Please, not again_. (Please, let it end—)

Before he can touch the sodden fabric of the suit the man takes in a gasping breath that has Bruce release his own, frantically fumbling to get the red hood off of his head. It drops and reveals an unruly mop of green hair, his shivering skin looking unnaturally pale in the night. He hasn’t noticed the Bat yet, squinting and rubbing at his eyes as if he can’t see properly, but as soon as he spots his shadow he squeaks and tries to bolt. The shoes slip in the mud, and he turns and scrambles away from him. Reddened fingers scratch at his own exposed skin.

“Hey, it’s alright. I won’t hurt you,” Bruce says (lies, lies, lies—) as gentle as his voice allows. “Let me help you.”

He falters, contemplating his options, but ends up turning to look up at him after all. His face is gaunt, and what he thought to be merely pale skin looks almost white, now. Blank. (It doesn’t have to end like that—)

Drops of blood trickle out of his ears. His nose. Pool in his eyes. His lips and the inside of his mouth are red and raw from whatever he almost drowned in. Bruce needs to get a sample of that substance, he thinks, once he’s sure his life is saved. He has to survive. (He always does.) His voice sounds like barbed wire crawling out of his throat.

“What—what happened, I—”

_(I don’t know what it was that bent your life out of shape—)_

“You fell.”

_(—You, darling. It’s all for you.)_

He looks wide-eyed at the Bat, his stare becoming more and more unfocused by the second. “Oh, God,” he breathes. The reflection of his face in the water catches his eyes, and he leans in and— ”Oh, God.” What he sees has him sinking white fingers into his hair and pulling painfully.

Bruce lays a gentle hand on his back, unsure what to do as delirious mumbles and giggles spill out of his red, red mouth and shake his frame. He can’t help but imagine how in all those alternate instances of this dream, he must have sat here in agony all alone, _because of him_ , and his chest constricts. Bruce pulls him into his arms, the compulsion to protect overcoming any caution or doubt as he laughs tears and cries blood and shakes in his hold. A drop of acid flings off of his hair and hits the exposed side of his face. It burns.

He holds him tighter.

-

“Master Bruce?”

Bruce snaps awake. He must have fallen asleep in the cave. Again. “'m 'wake,” he mumbles, his best impression of someone actually awake not fooling Alfred in the slightest.

“Of course. Your coffee, sir.”

He tries to reach for the cup in a way that doesn’t look like he’s about to keel over without its contents. “Thank you, Alfred.”

He waits for the sound of the elevator leaving to rub his burning eyes. This last dream was different; he never managed to find that man alive before, although the state he was left in after his acidic bath has him thinking that this outcome might be just as cruel as the ones in which he never gets to him at all. He runs a hand through his hair. All it does is remind him of that man again.

Maybe this ending is enough closure for his subconscious to stop tormenting him like this. He doesn’t even know where to start analyzing the flood of images his mind came up with. Every dream felt like living a hundred lives at once, and disturbingly real. And who would have thought that lucid dreaming in an attempt to control the nightmares of his childhood would come in handy again one day? 

The crackle of the police radio on the screen in front of him draws his attention to the computer. For a moment he thinks he might still be dreaming, but the pain of his nails digging into his own arm as he listens feels real enough.

“... unauthorized entering at ACE—at least five armed and dangerous—backup—Red Hood gang—”

His heart skips a beat and his fingertips tingle. Bruce grabs his cowl.

 _You can’t save everyone,_ they say. _But I won’t ever stop trying to save you,_ he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> A cookie for anyone who can spot all the references I managed to squeeze into this short thing. English is my second language, so if you see me make weird mistakes please tell me, I don’t bite.
> 
> Scream at me on tumblr:  
> mad-as-a-bats.tumblr.com


End file.
